From the rocky mountain barn, the wounded Avs make toaste,
Anger breathing Scotty spurs the Jetted host,
Borne by the cascading snows of false inspire,
And to each Pegger conveys the coached-up fire
Which, in pale embers hid, and lurks to aspire
And girdle with gifted goals they paste
Of Drouin's greas'd pate, to Wedgewood lay waste.
Happily that name of 'chaste' unhappily set
The feckless edge on Iafrate’s keen appetite;
When Bednar unwisely did not let
To praise the clearly mismatched and gutted Denver sando shytes
Aye, Perfecto will wake, and triumph in that barn of delight,
Where mortal Shufflehaus’d line, as bright as heaven's beauties,
With pure Lardlet aspects in shots, does us fantastic duties*.
* this is not a sonnet inasmuch as it may be a soliloquy, the rhyming pattern is a nontraditional dogs breakfast.